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AUTUMN :.:^^ 



A PRIZE POEM, 



JESSE E DOW-. 



-" For him the hand 



Of Autumn tinges every fertile branch 

With blooming gold and blushes like the morn." — AKE^rs'D*. 




5 WASHINGTON: 

PUBLISHED 3Y WILLIAM ADAM. 

1848. 



T Baknard, Printer, 
Waihinjion, D. C. 



,^^ 

'%- 



DEDICATION. 



TO 

LEVI WOODBURY, 

OF NEW HAMPSHIRE, 
THIS POEM IS RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED, BY 

THE AUTHOR. 



AUTUMN. 



— — " For him the hand 

Of Autumn tinges every fertile branch 

With blooming gold and blushes like themorr;," — ^^ken^id^. 

Season of fading glory ! Oh how sad, 
When through the woodland moans thy fitful gale, 
Shaking the ripenM nuts from loftiest bough, 
And down the forest aisle and sylvan road 
Whirling the yellow leaves with rustling sound. 

Mountain and vale, and mead, and pasture v,^iid, 
^ave quickly changed their robes of deepest greeji ; 
The summer flowers are withered, save a few 
Pale tremblers by the sunny cottage door, 
That linger, relics of the roseate band, 
Till icy winter, wandering from the pole, 
Sings their sad death-song on the snowy hills. 
Though not a cloud appears to fleck the sky, 
The sun at noon-day shines with tempered heat ; 
The solitary flicker bores the tree — 
The carpenter of birds ; and in the path, 
The deadly rattlesnake, with flattened head, 
And tongue of crimson darting from his mouth, 
Watches the idle bird that marks his form, 

r 



6 • AUTUMN. 

Till the charmed victim, with affrighted cries, 
Drops on his fangs, the vile seducer's prey. 

The hunter takes his way amid the woods, 
Or by the ocean side; when far away, 
Tlie wave that rolFd upon the beach has gone, 
To lave a thousand isles of beauty, ere 
It breaks again in thunder on that shore. 
The well-trained setter through the covert seeks 
The bird the sportsman's fancy prizes o'er 
The feathered songsters of the woodland wild : 
The covey starts, and soon the murd'rous aim 
Brings down the plover, or the woodcock dun, 
Or mottled pheasant, that puts trust in man. 
And finds, as all have found, the trust abused. 
On the brown stump the sprightly squirrel sits, 
Filling his striped pouch with ripened grain; 
While in the thicket near, the rabbit glides. 
And as his foot falls on the withered leaves, 
A rustling sound in the dim woods is heard, 
Rousing the chewitt and the piping jay, 
And starting from the dead pine's naked top. 
With hoarsest cry, the reconnoitering crow. 

The meadow-lark, with yellow breast, alights 
On the old field, and sings her favorite strain — 
A clear harmonious song. The Hunter Boy — 
A little urchin stealing by his side, 



AUTUMN. 

With freckled face, lit up with roguish smiles, 
And eyes that twinkle, perfect gems of fun — 
Armed with an ancient musket, that did speak 
The voice of death on War's victorious fields, 
Creeps down the garden wall and nears her seat ; 
Then, casting down his flapping hat of straw, 
Rests fearless o'er his trembling playmate's back, 
Takes dea-dly aim, and shuts both eyes, and fires ! 
Loud ring the hills, and vales, and plains around, 
The border grove is filled with sulphurous smoke, 
The cat-bird cries "for shame !" and darts away 
Before her leafy resting-place is seen ; 
And when the cloud of death has floated on, 
The victim bird is found a gory thing ; 
While the proud hereof this manly sport. 
Struts down the lane like Csesar entering Rome. 
The patient Angler threads the winding brook, 
Tempting the dainty trout with gilded bait ; 
And ever and anon, as fleecy clouds 
Pass o'er the sun, the fish voracious darts 
From lhe"Cool shadows of some mossy bank, 
Swallows the bait with one convulsive act, 
And learns too late that death was at the feast ; 
While the glad sportsman feels the sudden jerk, 
And plays his victim with extended line. 
Swiftly he darts, and from the glittering reel 
The silken line is drawn with ringing sound, 
Till wearied out with struggling that but serves 



8 AUTUMN. 

To drive the barbed weapon deeper still, 
He seeks his quiet shelter 'neath the bank, 
And thence in triumph to the shore is borne, 
A prize that well rewards a day of toil. 

Along the hills the school-boy flies his kite- 
Shoots the smooth marble thro' the studded ring, 
Or o'er the commons whh a bound and shout, 
Beats the soft ball for one well skilled to catch. 
Health crowns the joyful exercise, and night 
Finds its tired votaries trained for quiet sleep, 

Bearing his hazel wand of curious form, 

The searcher after earth's deep spring goes forth, 

Handling his mystic prongs as Merlin taught, 

Or. later follower of the magic school — 

Now over hill-tops, stony as the mounds 

That Indian warriors raise above their slain, 

Then down in valleys, where the sun ne'er shines, 

Fringed round with sylvan borders dense and rank. 

He trudges, looking wiser than the one 

Who passes o'er the busy brain his hand, 

And wraps the senses in a sleep profound. 

At length, above a vale where willows bend, 

And grass is greenest in the waning year. 

His curious tell-tale turns toward the earth ; 

He stops, and with a shout of joy proclaims 

The long sought spot where living waters run, 



AUTUMN. 9 

And where the well may sink, nor sink in vain. 

The forest now awakes, while stroke on stroke, 
Fails on the hoary monarch of the wood, 
Shaking its regal head amid the host 
That nurstled in its shade. At length it falls 
And with terrific crash, bears down to earth 
Each minor object that obstructs its way — 
Down on the verdant carpet that had spread 
Beneath its branches in the summer heat, 
Behold it lying like a warrior stern. 
Who, having grappled in the deadly fray, 
Has sank amid his fellows in his pride — 
But not to die, tho' robbed of all its green. 
Still shall it in the lofty steeple live, 
Or in the battle-ship, whose thunder speaks 
The^voice of Freedom on her ocean way. 
The sail that wafts the admiral in his pride, 
By it is held to catch the willing gale. 
And on its giant breast the fabric rests. 
That bears the sturdy warriors of the deep, 
And floats them on in sunshine and in storm. 
Its branches to the cottage-hearth are given, 
And by the fire that feeds and grows on them 
The chilly air is changed to breath of spring. 
Food, shelter, comfort, from its fall proceed, 
And thousands bless the hand that laid it low. 



ID AUTUMN. 

Above the purple peaks that fringe the west 
The swollen clouds obey the Tempest's call, 
And rear their domes and battlements of mist, 
With turrets, barbicans, and spires of gold ; 
Now changing into shapes of demon form, 
With wreaths of lightning twining round their brows. 
And now, like waves of darkness from old night, 
Scowling and breaking on the misty hills, 

A drowsy stillness steals along the plain ; 
The leaves hang motionless on every tree ; 
The twitt'ring swallow glides along the ground. 
While cautious pigeons seek the sheltering eaves. 
The geese that o'er the green so stately stalked, 
Fly towards the gloomy west with heavy wing. 
And give a noisy welcome to the rain. 
The cattle from the hills come early home. 
And from the fallow ground the lab'rer turns, 
Long ere the hour of sunset, with an eye 
That reads the secrets of the heavens as well 
As though it opened first in Chaldea's land. 
Along the road the mimic whirlwind runs. 
And with its unseen fingers lifts the dust ; 
The town-returning wagon faster moves. 
And down the hill, and o'er the sandy plain. 
The village Jehu makes the coach-wheel spin ; 
His horn's wild music swelling on the ear, 



AUTUMN. 11 

But hark ! the storm-drum beats the tempest charge ; 

The groaning forest feels its rushing breath, 

And bends its yellow head to let it pass ; 

The vivid lightning takes its errant way, 

While echoing, 'mid the sparkling halls of hail, 

Is heard the sound of its descending feet 

In thunder. The hail drops fearfully around 

Strips the stout trees, and beats to earth the grain, 

Wounds man and beast amid the open fields, 

And strikes with deadly blow the wild fowl down. 

Flash after flash lights up the dreaded scene. 
And answering thunder speaks from every cloud ; 
While the deep caverns of the ocean swell 
Their mystic voices in the chorus grand. 
Men sit in silence now with anxious looks, 
While^mid mothers seek their downy .beds. 
And press their wailing infants to their breasts. 

From her low lattice by the cottage-door. 
The anxious housewife marks the pelting storm ; 
Sees the advent'rous traveler onward go, 
Seeking his distant hamlet, ere the night 
Adds tenfold horrors to the dismal scene. 
Swiftly the steed bounds o'er the woodland plain, 
While hope beams brightly from the rider's eye, 
When lo ! a crimson flash, with peal sublime, 
Instant as thought, and terrible as death, 



12 AUTUMN. 

Around her bursts. Blinded, she starts, then sees, 
Again. The horse and his bold rider lie 
Hushed in the marble-sleep that lasts through time 
And while the wind howls mournfully around, 
The forest owns the baptism of fire. 

The onset o'er, in mingled fire and hail, 

Behold the rain in sweet profusion falls. 

The warm shower melts the crystal drops that hide 

The earth's brown bosom ; and the foaming brooks 

Go singing down the hills, and through the Vales, 

Like happy children when their tasks are o'er 

A few bright flashes, and hoarse, rattling peals, 

And then, amid the broad and crimson glow. 

O'er western hills, a golden spot appears, 

That spreads and brightens as the tempest wanes. 

Like Heaven's first smile upon the dying's face. 

'T is gone, the rumbling of its chariot wheels 

Dies in the ocean vales where echo sleeps ; 

While waves that roU'd in music on the shore, 

Lashed into angry surges, foam and break 

In notes of terror on the rocky lee. 

'T is gone, and on its besom dark and wild. 

The bow of God is hung, in colors bright 

And beautiful as morning's blushing tints. 

When the ark rested on the mountain top, 

And the small remnant of a deluged world, 

Looked out upon the wilderness and wept. 



ATTTtTMN. 13 

Gently the Sabbath breaks upon the hills, 
As when the first blest Sabbath marked the course 
Of Time. The golden sunbeam sleeps upon 
The woods. No cloud casts o'er the scene a shade. 
The six days' labor ended, man and beast 
Enjoy the season of appointed rest. 
The fields are lonely, and the drowsy dells 
Scarce catch the whisper of the gentle air ; 
And now is heard, far over hill and dale. 
Up laughing valley, and through whisp'ring glen, 
Gladdening the solitary place, and sadder heart, 
The sweet-toned Sabbath-bell. Oh, joyful sound ! 
When from the Indian Isle the storm tossed bark, 
Furls its white pinion by its cradled shore, 
And the tir'd sailor, on the giddy yard, 
Cent'ring the thoughts of years in one short hour, 
Looks to the land, and hears thy melting peal. 
At such an hour the grateful heart pours out 
Its praise, that upward soars like the blue smoke 
Rising from its bright cottage-hearth to Heaven ; 
And from the deep empyrean the ear 
Of holy Faith an answering note receives, 
To still the mourning soul, and dry its tears. 
Sweet is the Sabbath to a world of care. 
When Spring comes blushing with her buds and flowers; 
When Summer scents the rose, and fills the grain ; 
When Autumn crowns her horn, and binds her sheaves, 
And Winter keeps his cold watch on the hills. 
2 



14 AUTUMN. 

The wakeful cock from distant farm-yard crows 
The passing hour — the miller stops his wheel 
To gather headway for the coming task — 
And by the turnpike-gate the loaded team, 
With bending necks, stand panting, while beneath 
The rustic shade the careless teamster waits — 
With long-lashed whip, and frock of linsey-wool. 
And hat of undyed felt cocked o'er his eye — 
There draining to the dregs his foaming gourd, 
Stands in his brogans every inch a King. 
Approach him, sage professor, as you list, 
With question subtil on a point abtruse : 
Or with a query as to simple things — 
Physics or metaphysics, eld or new. 
Law, written or unwritten, good or bad. 
Logic, domestic, or of foreign growth, 
Knowledge, too deep to know and never known, 
Or sluggish faith, that takes a teeming age 
Of miracles, to make one soul believe ; 
Questions political, that sage to sage 
Have past for centuries on, as truants wild 
Toss prickly burs, for their unthinking mates 
To catch, by moonlight, in the autumnal woods; 
Talk of Creation, or the Chinese wall, 
Wander o'er Athens' hill or sumac knoll, 
Drink at Castalia's fount or Jaspar's Spring, 
And he is there to answer and confound. 
Nature's philosopher ! untaught by schoolsy 



AUTUMN. 15 

Who knows, and can explain in one short hour. 
More than the wide world knew in Plato's day. 



And there the blacksmith by his anvil stands — 

Well may you mark his tall and robust form, 

His forehead full, where intellect may dwell, 

And eye that glances like the flying sparks 

When the red bar comes dazzling from the forge. 

All day his hammer works his iron will, 

The reaper's sickle and the crooked scythe 

The ponderous tire that binds the wagon-wheel, 

And the small rivet of the schoolboy's toy. 

Come at his bidding from the metal crude. The patient ox 

Waits for his iron shoes beside his door. 

And the gay steed, that bounds along the course, 

Neighs merrier when he plates his hoofs with steel ; 

The temple door on his stout hinges turns, 

And in the vault of Mammon rests secure 

The treasure guarded by his master-key. 

Day after day he toils, as seldom toil 

The slaves that drag their lazy length along — 

Sleeping at noon that they may dance at night — 

In the plantations of the sunny South ; 

Yet he unmurmuring bears the laborer's curse, 

To share his joys and roam the golden fields, 

Erect in form and intellect — a man ! 

But when the evening comes with cooling breath. 

Bringing the hour for labor's sweet repose, 



16 



AUTUMN. 



He clears his brow from every mark of toil, 
And seeks his cottage by the village green; 
There, having ate in peace his frugal meal, 
He turns his mind, insatiate, to his books: 
And, by the aid of Learning's golden key. 
Holds sweet communion with the ages past. 
Behold ! the scholar now in honest pride I 
Around him sleep the mystic tomes of years. 
Books that the western world ne'er saw before — 
The manuscripts of monks, ere printing gave 
The world a channel to a sea of thought. 
Where all might sail, and drink in raptures in 
The spirit- waters, sparkling from their founts. 
His tongue can speak more languages than fell 
From human lips at Babel's overthrow ; 
Nor secret thing, to mortal spirit known. 
Is hidden from his penetrating eye. 
Versed in the deepest mysteries of the schools, 
With memory stored with all the mind e'er grasped. 
With talents rarely willed by Heaven to one. 
And sympathetic heart that beats for all, 
Nor knows an outcast at its feast of love , 
BuRRiTT now lives, the wonder of mankind. 
Rabbis and sage professors call him learned, 
And to his humble gateway come in crowds. 
To hear the page of ancient lore rehearsed. 
And catch the jewel-thoughts that fall from him 
Who sits amid the learned, a self-taught man. 



AUTUMN. 17 

In the dun forest far away from noise 

Of traveled road, beneath the giant trees, 

Whose branches form a lofty canopy 

O'er a great circle cleared by willing hands, 

Where the gray ash obstructs the serpent's path, 

The happy Christians pitch their tents of prayer. 

There naught is heard but soothing woodland sounds, 

The tempered roar of distant waterfall, 

The fox's sharp bark, the heathcock's cheerful crow. 

The wildcat's growl amid tlie deepest shade. 

And the shrill scream of hunger-driven hawk, 

As through the openings he pursues his prey. 

Amid the tents upon the highest spot, 
The preachers' stand in humble form appears, 
^d by its side the horn with mellow note, 
To give the signal meet for praise and prayer. 
There all conditions come with hearts of love. 
Married and single, sons and daughters fair, 
The emigrants from every templed land ; 
The Saxon, in his pride of high descent. 
The Gaul, with spirit-harp of finer strings. 
The Pict, ne'er weaned from his romantic hills, 
Where o'er the heather rolls the Highland tongue, 
The Swiss, whose home is where his cottage smiles, 
The light Italian, gayest of the gay. 
And the coarse Hollander, who loves the marsh, 
3* 



18 AUTUMN. 

Nor deems a heaven a home without a ditch — 

The river seamen of the mighty west, 

Rude in their speech, but honest as they're rude, 

The man of cities, and the pioneer. 

Whose axe first let the sunhght to the woods, 

When nature in her lonely beauty slept 

On the wide prairie and the sylvan hill — 

The beaver-trapper, from the far-off stream ; 

The bison-hunter, from the saline lick ; 

And the wild Indian, in his forest dress, 

All gather from their journeyings to keep, 

In humble guise, a week of holier time. 

And now the horn has echoed wide and shrill, 

And the great congregation waits for prayer. 

One takes the stand — a man not taught by schools- 

In habit plain, with hands embrown'd by toil ; 

Blunt in his speech, yet reverent withal. 

Now, scarcely understood, he lifts his voice 

In praise to God. Then as his feelings catch 

The inspiration of that hallowed hour, 

Soars to a pitch of eloquence sublime. 

While the deep woods are vocal with his prayer. 

His words, like rain upon the thirsty ground, 

Fall on the ear of that great multitude. 

Now he describes a Saviour's matchless love — 

His high estate, his exile from the throne, 

His mocking trial, and his felon death ; 



AUTUMN. 19 

The noonday sun in darkness veils its face, 

And earthquake voices fill the trembling air, 

While the old dead in shrouds, through Salem's streets. 

Go forth a ghostly company again. 

Singing the song of Moses and the Lamb, 

And making the proud Temple's arches ring. 

With the glad praises of Redeeming Love. 

'Tis done ! the mighty plan is carried out — 

The last great Sacrifice for sin is o'er ; 

Then from the tomb he rolls the stone away, 

And shows a risen Saviour and a God ! 

The diff*erent hearers testify his power 

In difierent ways. The truth, like a sharp sword. 

Has cleaved its path. The flinty heart is crushed ; 

And the great deep of sin is broken up. 

The old transgressors tremble by the stand — 

The young in sin repent to sin no more. 

A thousand voices join in one wild prayer. 

And shrieks, and gioans, and shouts of joy arise, 

And Heaven keeps Sabbath o'er the autumn woods. 

The painted savage, who amid the crowd 
Has stood unmoved for days, awakes to life ; 
His giant breast in wild commotion heaves, 
His heart would speak, nor wait to reach his lips ; 
He stands and vainly calls to his relief 
His savage nature ; but, alas ! 't is gone. 
Then falling on his face amid the woods 



20 AUTUMN. 

That often echoed to his war-whoop fell, 
He casts his weapons at his Saviour's feet, 
And lays aside his garments stained with blood. 
His voice in accents of his soul now speaks. 
His eyes with tears of deep contrition stream. 
And from a trembling tongue in transport breaks, 
Sweet Alleluia to the King of Kings ! 
The angel hovering o'er that forest scene. 
Bears up the tidings on exulting wing, 
And soon from the high pinnacles of bliss, 
The Seraph harps in sweetness makes response. 
Alleluia ! 

The thrilling song in gentle murmuring falls 
Upon the anxious ear, like music heard 
On the calm ocean at the midnight hour; 
Speaks to the broken heart in whispers sweet. 
And dies away amid the forest hum. 
Alleluia ! 

The night has come, and one by one the lights 
Go out amid the trees, and the vast multitude 
Is hushed in sleep. 



The harvest moon sails up its cloudless way, 
Full, round and red — the farmer's evening friend. 
Lengthening the hours of labor, when the hand 
Finds more than it can do within the day. 
How gently falls its light upon the plains, 
The quiet lake, and music-breathing woods ; 



AUTUMN. 21 

The wakened bird mistakes it for the dawn, 
And in the bush begins her matin song. 
A moment rings the solitary strain, 
And then no sound is wafted to the ear, 
Save the wild whisper of the dying wind, 
Or distant foot-fall of some prowling beast. 

Sweet voyager of night ! whose fairy bark 

Sails silently around the dusky earth. 

Whose silver lamp in chastened splendor burns. 

Trimmed by the hand that fashioned thee so fair, 

And sent thee forth on thy eternal way, 

The nearest and the brightest to our eyes 

Of Heaven's innumerable host — sail on 

Thy joyous way, in beauty 'mid the stars. 

And catch the song of those bright sentinels, 

Who watch the outposts on the bounds of Time, 

Sending in vain their rays to pierce the gloom 

Of drear immensity. The lover's eye — 

Whether he grasps the wreck amid the waves, 

Or treads in pride the well appointed deck 

Of richly freighted gallion; or is doom'd, 

Like Selkirk, in his lonely isle, to dwell 

More desolate because his ear had heard, 

In Scottish valley, the sweet Sabbath bell ; 

Or chases, with the seamen of the north. 

The monster-whale, by Greenland's sounding shore, 

Where crystal icebergs lift their glittering peaks, 



22 AUTUMN. 

And bathe with rainbow hues the snowy vales ; 
Or robs the otter of his glossy coat, 
Where the Oregon sings her endless hymn 
To the Pacific's waters ; or gathers 
Birds' nests 'mid the endless summer isles, 
Where wave the cocoa-nut and lofty palm 
O'er crystal billows, 'mid whose coral groves 
The fish of brightest tints in beauty swim — 
In health or sickness, joy or sorrow, turns 
Inquiringly to thee, and speaks of love — 
Love that endures when strength and reason fails. 
So the poor idiot on the moonlit hill, 
Patting his dog, his last and truest friend, 
Looks up with eye of more than usual fire, 
And, 'mid his idle chatterings speaks the name 
Of one who loved him best in boyhood's dream. 

Thompson, sweet village ! throned upon thy hills, 
With happy homes, and spires that gleam above 
Thy sacred altars, where the fathers taught, 
And generations learned the way to God — 
How pleasant, with Remembrance's eye, to view 
The varied landscape changing autumn spreads 
O'er sunny vales that slumber at thy feet; 
Where roll the babbling brook and deeper steam, 
Winding, like threads of silver tissue, wrought 
By Moorish maidens on their robes of green. 
Around thee rise a host of smiling towns, 



AUTUMN. Q3 

Bearing the names of mightier ones abroad. 

There Dudley, glittering on the northern sky, 

Stands on her lofty height supremely fair, 

While westward, Woodstock with her groves .is seen, 

In rural beauty blest ; and at her feet, 

Wrapt in a silver cloud, sweet Pomphret vale. 

Spreads its gay bosom, dear to childhood's hour. 

The iron horse now darts with lightning speed 

Through the green valleys that my boyhood knew, 

And at each turn the lovely river makes. 

At the mere plashing of the wild swan's wing, 

A babbling village rises from the flood : 

And there the halls of labor lift their domes 

At Mammon's call, and countless spindles twirl 

The snowy thread, that soon is changed to gold : 

While far around is heard the dash of wheels, 

And the unceasing roar of swollen dams. 

The dead leaves dance upon the river's breast. 

With tufts of cotton-waste, and here and theie 

A golden apple, dropped by careless boy, 

Floating along toward the ocean's flood. 

On the grey oak the fisher-bird awaits 

The speckled trout, or chaffin, tinged with gold ; 

While 'neath the rock the swimmer leaves his clothes, 

And 'mid the cooling wave in gladness sports 

His ivory limbs, nor heeds the near approach 

Of roaming bard, or xed-cheeked factory girl, 



24 AUTUMN. 

Who climbs the rustic bridge, nor casts an eye 
Toward her Leander, naked in the flood. 
On such fair maidens no Duennas wait, 
To scare young love from answering love away ; 
No convent gates are closed to bar her will, 
Nor Hotspur brothers, armed with deadly steel, 
In secret wait to guard that honor safe, 
Which, but for such restraint, had long since fled. 
Beyond the swampy meadow, fringed with flags. 
The ancient forest waves its gaudy head, 
O'er which the eagle takes his lonely way — 
The mighty hunter of the upper air. 
There in the mossy dells, where all is still. 
Save when uncertain murmurs come and go 
Along the solemn arches of the wood — 
Like whispers in a lonely lane at dark, 
Or soothing hum of home-returning bee — 
The boy, delighted, sets his secret snares, 
Clearing broad paths amid the yellow leaves. 
Where the cock-partridge may strut in pride 
At earlest dawn, and find the fatal noose ; 
There, when the sun is peeping o'er the hills. 
Tinging the woodland sea with gorgeous hues. 
He goes, with eager step and anxious eye, 
Beholds the path obscured, the sapling sprung. 
And, 'mid the maple boughs, his mottled prey. 

The Reaper pauses in the ample field, 



AUTUMN. 25 

Where a rich harvest smiles to bless his toil, 
And rests beside the oak, beneath whose shade, 
In ages past the wandering Red Man slept ; 
There, while the sun pours down his fervent ray, 
The happy laborer seeks to quench his thirst 
With crystal water from the lime-stone spring. 
Or milk, from prudent housewife's ample store-*— 
Pure as it came from Nature's healthy fount ; 
And while he sits the idle hours away. 
He muses o'er his country and her fame. 
And dares to claim her empire as his own. 

And there, amid the grass, the children play 
Around the sun-burnt maidens, as they twine 
The bands to bind the golden armfuls tight. 
And leave the bristling sheafs, with plenty crowned, 
In beauty standing on the fresh reap'd hill. 
The groaning wagon gathers up the grain 
From auburn fields. The yellow sheaves are piled 
In ponderous heaps, while one well skilled builds up 
The toppling load, and when 'tis finished, sits 
On its sere top, crowned with the ripened grain — 
The Autumn's King ! And as the reaper's hale 
And rosy children shout for joy, he sings, 
With mellow voice, the song of Harvest Home. 
The sickle gleams no more amid the field ; 
The cradled hills are open to the feet 
Of Want's poor gleaners and the hunter band ; 
3 



26 AUTUMN. 

And there the quail walks with her piping brood 
Amid the stubble, teaching them to fly. 

Amid the orchard, bending 'neath the load 
That fair Pomona from her lap has strewn. 
The busy husbandmen commence their task. 
The red-cheeked apple, and the greening pale. 
The golden pippin, and the blue pearmain, 
Baldwin and russet, all are toppled down. 
And to the air a balmy fragrance give. 
And there, the urchins playing all the while, 
Select the choicest fruit for future use. 
When the long winter night creeps o'er the hill. 
And Autumn's golden brow is wrapped in gloom. 

The cider-press, beneath the farmhouse shade, 
Now creaks, as round old Dobbin takes his way, 
While from the massive vat the liquor pours. 
And in abundant casks ferments and foams. 
Hail, generous drink ! fair Newark's honest boast. 
The laborer's beverage in a northern clime. 
Where Freedom first, in deadly strife was born, 
And where her last scarred-follower shall die — 
If death to such e'er come. 
Oft have I sighed for thee in spicy clime, 
Where hung the clustering grape from every bough, 
And where the nectar of the gods was free 
As Croton-water in old Gotham's Park. 



AUTUMN. 27 

Untainted with the liquid sin that flows 

From the destroyer's still, thjr spirit lifts 

The thirsty soul from earth — but not too high, 

Nor leaves at morn a flush upon the brow. 

An apple caused the first of earth to sin ; 

But thou, well made, and freed from earthly taint, 

Raisest the weary spirit to its tone. 

And givest to labor's cheek the glow of health. 

Now, in the rosy morn, the spotted hounds 

Before the mounted huntsmen hie away. 

O'er fields and meadows, onward see them go, 

Scaling the walls, and trampling down the corn. 

And now they penetrate the forest shade. 

And from the sylvan dell, and wood-capt hill, 

The deep-mouthed bay with wild halloo is heard, 

Swelling in cadence to the hunter's horn. 

In her retreat, amid the deepest shade. 

Where the long grass is tender, and ne'er fails, 

The red-deer hears, and starts, and lists again. 

Till louder still the chase's wild music sounds. 

Then down the hill-side to the lake that spreads 

Its broad unruffled bosom to the morn, 

She takes her course ; while on her haunches come 

The bellowing pack, like gaunt and hungry wolves. 

Now she has gained the stunted alders' shade, 

That line the margin of the waters clear. 

And turning quickly round the wave-worn hill, 



28 AUTUBIN. 

That towers abruptly o'er the narrow beach, 
Dips her h'ght hoofs in the unconscious wave, 
And seeks the mountain-pass with lightning speed. 
Hid from their sight, the scent in water lost, 
The eager pack plunge headlong in the flood ; 
But soon recalled to duty, 'long the shore 
They scour, till one more practised than the rest. 
Stops where the chase her sylvan pathway took. 
And bellowing wildly, follows in her track, 
With the whole party thundering at his heels. 
The wily deer too long has got the start, 
And now from distant hill -side sees the foe 
Come panting up the dell with weary limb. 
A moment only does she look, then turns 
And glides in silence down the other side ; 
And when the huntsmen gain the lofty height^ 
The deer is far away — the chase is o'er. 

Oh ! who can sing the glories of the woods. 
When Indian Summer, like a death-smile, rests 
On Autumn's sallow cheek too soon to fade. 
In ages past, when thou didst gently come, 
"With nights of frost and noons of sultry heat, 
When skies were blue as highly tempered steel, 
And rivers clear as crystal, and the mist 
Upon the mountains hung its silver veil ; 
When o'er the grass a fairy net-work spread, 
And naught was green except the mountain pine. 



AUTUMN. 29 

The willow, and the bull-rush by the brook " — 

Our fathers feared — for then amid the wilds, 

Called by the wampum-belt of varied hue, 

The Indian warriors built their council-fire. 

And in the war-dance joined with hellish rite. 

Till morning broke upon the dusky woods. 

Then, at the hour when mortals soundest sleep, 

And nature is at rest, tliey sallied forth. 

Armed with the hatchet and the scalping-knife, 

And trusty rifle, whose report is death. 

The sleeping father woke to hear the cry 

Of butchered wife, and infant rudely torn 

From her clasped arms, to feel the war-club's power. 

One look he gave, and on his silvery head 

The hatchet fell, and loosed the flood of life, 

Then sinking down in death's cold senseless sleep, 

Added fresh fuel to the crackling flames 

That spread around his lonely sylvan cot. 

And lit, with hateful glare, the moaning vroods. 

Next morn the wandering hunter marked the waste, 

And found amid the ashes, human bones, 

An axe, a child's steel rattle, and a lock 

Of woman's golden hair, still wet with blood. 

The sun in mellow light sleeps on the hills. 

The lazy river rolls in silence on, 

The woods keep Sabbath, till the deep-mouthed bay 

Of wandering fox-hound breaks upon the ear ; 
3# 



30 AUTUMN. . 

Or from the top of an old chesnut falls 

The tempting nut the startled squirrel drops. 

Parting the fading leaves with pattering sound ; 

Or on the rotten log beside the stile, 

The busy partridge beats her woodland drum. 

The frost has tipt the trees with lovelier tints 

Than pencil ever gave to forest scene ; 

There green and gold in various hues combine. 

Spotted with crimson where the maple stands. 

And when the sun upon the hoar-frost shines. 

The foliage spaikles, as though crystals hung 

On every leaf, and trembled in the air. 

The eye now penetrates the half-clad trees, 

And spies the squirrel in his leafy house, 

Or marks upon the limb the wish-ton-wish, 

Who rests by day, that he may sweeter sing 

His song at night, beside the cottage gate. 

The thistle-seed, with wing of silver down, 

Floats in the air, and flashes in the sun. 

The dusky worm that feasted on the leaf 

In the green spring-time, weaves his curious shroud. 

And fastening it by thread of minute size. 

To the tall poplar, swings himself to sleep. 

Type of the resurrection ! lo, he hangs 

Between the mortal and the spirit-land, 

Till called by God, through Nature's changeless laws, 

He starts a winged creature clad in light, 

With tints of morning blushing on his wings, v 



AUTUMN. 31 

The fisher's boat along the river glides, 
Nor leaves a ripple in its shallow wake. 
The wild swan sports in Anacostia's wave, 
And deems his shadow his departed mate ; 
The patient heron, on the wave- washed rock 
For hours stands, watching his suspecting prey ; 
The wild-goose raises heavily to join 
The gabbling cohort that is hastening on, 
High in the air, to the bright summer-land, 
Where the superb magnolia lifts its head. 
And scents the gale — a wilderness of flowers. 
The hardy ivy climbs ihe giant tree, 
To place green garlands on its withered head ; 
The wild grape from the lofty walnut hangs 
Its purple clusters tempting to the sight ; 
And by the swampy brook, the sunflower turns 
Its golden eye in meekness towards its God ; 
The deer, from sylvan dell comes out to drink ; 
The buzzard on the dead tree patient waits, 
For the returninor tide to line the shore 
With food well suited to his groveling taste ; 
And o'er the bosom of the widening stream, 
The lazy fish-hawk flaps his heavy wing. 
Old age and childhood mark, with curious eye, 
The lonely scene, and pass, with cautious tread, 
Down the still pathway of the dying woods. 

Now, round the mighty piles of corn they sit, 



32 AUTUMN. 

The aged ones, the young men, and the lads, 

With here and there a son of Afric's cUme, 

With eye that rolls in undiminished joy, 

And mouth that ready waits to swell the laugh, 

Or join the merry huskers' drinking song. 

And thus the labor of a week is done, 

While wives and daughters, 'neath the farmer's roof, 

Spread out the festive boards with viands rich, 

And tempting to the eye of one who bears 

The sweat of labor on his swarthy brow. 

Now, from its yellow sheathe, the ripened corn, 

In well-filled ears, is drawn — a pleasant sight ; 

And while the village maidens pass along. 

Stopping, where'er their fancy wills, to husk, 

Ked ears are placed within their anxious palms, 

By roguish ones, who liid them for this hour ; 

And as they draw the crimson emblems forth, 

Full many a kiss is printed on the cheek 

Of rosy innocence, by lips that ne'er 

Such liberty had dared to take before. 

The clock strikes twelve, and from his cozy perch 

Beside the fattest pullet, lo, the cock 

Proclaims the approaching morn with shrillest crow I 

The corn is husked, and now they gather round 

The board, while lovely maidens wait to serve 

With ready hand, the laborers of the eve. 

Now from the lips of village sire ascends 

The prayer for Heaven's rich blessing on their food ; 



AUTUMN. 33 

Thanks for the pouring out of plenty's horn, 

And gratitude for life and health — nay, more, 

For liberty, without which all things else 

Were vain, And while he stands with streaming eye, 

And hand that palsy oft has clasped in vain, 

His trembling accents fall upon the ear. 

Like distant music at the close of day. 

The service o'er, the merry feast begins, 

Then joy runs riot round the sacred chair, 

And dignified propriety is gay 

As gipsy maiden, with her silver bells 

Tinkling around her heels. At length the dawn 

Recall the joyous throng to other scenes ; 

And soon the last gay visiter has bade 

His warm good-bye — and the old house is still. 

Left all alone, in calm security. 

Straight in his oaken-chair of antique form, 

Within his hall, the farmer sits and sleeps. 

While the fierce house-dog watches at his feet. 

Sweet hour of plenteous ease, when Care puts off 

His wrinTiled brow, and Charity and Love, 

The faitest sisters of the heavenly train, 

Go hand in hand along the faded walks, 

And sit at evening by the cottage door. 

There the old soldier, covered o'er with scars. 

Limping along unnoticed by the crowd. 

Whose liberties were purchased with his blood, 

Finds 'neath the whispering elms before the door, 



34 AUTUMN. 

A welcome seat ; and there the little ones, 

Called from their play by watchful Towser's growl, 

And the patched dress that glory gives her sons, 

Gather around their sire whh mute surprise, 

And list to tales of other days, when war. 

With iron feet, swept thundering o'er the glade, 

And reared his bloody altars on the hills. 

And while they listen, lo ! the soldier's face 

Grows less terrific, and his tatterM dress 

No longer seems to hide a vagrant's form. 

With stealthy look and silent step, they seek 

The festive board, and silently return ; 

Then, while he wipes from his dim eye a tear. 

They fill the old man's pack with generous food, 

ProfTer the goblet full to his parched lips, 

And play at " hide and seek " around his chair. 

The heart of power may coldly beat when they 

Who fought for Freedom in her darkest hour. 

In age and penury, appear to claim 

The boon a monarch never yet refused ; 

But by the hearth-stones of his native land. 

Where liberal thoughts and generous feelings dwell, 

The valiant soldier ne'er shall find a churl 

To bid him trudge, a rude unwelcome guest. 

On Salem's hills the Hebrews' reign is o'er, 
The silver trump of jubilee is still. 
Timbrel and harp and soft-toned dulcimer 



AUTUMN. ^ 35 

Have ceased their strains in Sharon's rosy vale ; 
The scattered tribes in earth's remotest bounds 
Wander like sheep upon the mountain side, 
And Israel mourns her empire and her God. 
The fisher, solitary, dries his net 
On the green rock, amid the silver wave, 
Where, robed in purple, sat imperial Tyre, 
And through tlie autumn day beholds no sail, 
To catch the scented breeze from Cypress Isle. 
The hills of Judah, crowned with ruins gray, 
Lift their brown summits to the deep blue air, 
And cast their cooling shadows on the sea. 
Hushed is the shepherd's lute, the reaper's shout. 
The bleat of flocks, and patriarch's song of praise ; 
The Harvester of years has o'r them past, 
And hung his reaping hook in Joseph's tomb. 
But though the trump of jubilee is still. 
And Israel's host in triumph meet no more 
By Jacob's well, or Siloa's sacred brook ; 
Yet in the western world, where Freedom rears 
Her Banner o'er the altar of her God, 
And all religions meet in peaceful mood. 
At Autumn's close, the wanderers return 
To distant homes, to keep Thanksgiving Day. 
Such was the custom of the Pilgrim band. 
When first they trod that wild and wintry shore. 
And such th' observance of their sterling sons. 
Who, scattered o'er the freeman's heritage, 



36 AUTUMN. 

Remember tlieir bold ancestry with pride, 

And where they tread, make new New England's bloom. 

The days grow shorter, and the nights with frost 

Creep shivering o'er the landscape's fading green. 

The village stage comes in at later hour, 

From city, town, and distant boarding-school, 

Bringing a host of merry hearts, who seek 

The joys of childhood by their native hearths ; 

And as it pauses at the welcome door, 

The inmates rush, uncovered, to the stile. 

And there, 'mid kisses long and loud, is heard 

The mother's anxious inquiry for health. 

The boisterous brother's rude though hearty hail, 

And happy father's well-timed welcome home. 

What joys, what transports centre in the hour, 

While the old mansion rings with childlike mirth. 

For weeks the very atmosphere has teemed 

With savory odor from the kitchen flue. 

And now the day begins, clear, cold and still. 

While yet the sun sails up it morning course, 

The merry peal from village spire is heard. 

And straightway pours the tide of life along, 

Gathering fresh numbers from each ivied door, 

Changing their greetings warm on every hand, 

With those by Mammon or by glory called, 

Whose wandering feet have homeward turned again : 

And many a speaking eye reveals the tale 

Of love long felt, but ne'er before expressed. 



AUTUMN. 37 

The church is still, and maiden modesty- 
Has smoothed her dress and re-arranged her curl, 
Then from the choir the pealing anthem swells 
With chorus grand— and voices long unused 
To holy song join in the symphony 
Of praise. Prayer long and eloquent ensues, 
In which the earth, the nation, and the church. 
The righteous and the wicked, rich and poor, 
Remembrance find. And then a meet discourse, 
Recounting changes of the variant year, 
Paying a tribute just to absent worth. 
And hanging garlands green on Glory's tomb. 
The heart is touched — the mourner's eye grows dim — 
The proud are humble and the poor rejoice ; 
And when the speaker closes, with a charge 
To pay due homage to the Mighty One 
Who guides Arcturus and his boisterous sons, 
Binds the sweet influence of the Pleiades, 
And breaks Orion's broad and sparkling bonds. 
All hearts, with one accord, in reverence bow. 
And pure thanksgiving peals from every tongue. 

The service done, they seek their cheerful hearths 
To spend the hallowed day in feasts of love. 
The feast is set — and Joy's wild burst is o'er — 
The mother's eye has marked the vacant chair — 
The father's ear has missed his first horn's step — 
And where the church-yard sleeps, so still, they look 
4 



38 AUTUMN. 

With hearts of grief, and eyes suffused with tears. 

Evening with smiles and tales has come, and round 
The social circle blind-man's buff is played. 
Wisdom and years are straightway laid aside, 
And Manhood lives its childhood o'er again. 
Seeking the golden shadows of the days 
Long passed away. 

And now the youngest having sought repose. 
Friend after friend drops in with cheerful heart ; 
The merry dance succeeds the merry game, 
And the light foot with lighter heart keeps time. 
Music is also there, with gentle tone. 
Singing the favorite tunes of other days. 
Age with its wrinkle. Childhood with its smile, 
Youth with its hope, and Manhood with its care, 
Joy blends with high esteem, and admiration 
Kindles into love. 

The old clock ticks the drowsy hours along — 
The midnight comes — the joyous throng disperse ; 
Full many a head on sleepless pillow lies. 
Till wearied out, with thinking o'er the past, 
The mind surrenders to the body's guide, 
And dreams of fancy dance before the eye. 

Blest Labor ! thou dost fringe the poor man's lids 
With gold ; and drive remembrance of his wrongs 



AUTUMN. 39 

Away — hang o'er his drowsy visions scenes 

Of pleasantness, where round a cheerful cot 

Wind paths of peace. Oh, Night ! to him what are 

The ills of day, if thou but shelter him 

With brooding wing. — 

Earth without labor — what a dreary waste ! 

Sadder to view than Asia's barren plains, 

Or Afric's sea of sand. He that would strike 

The arm of sinews down, would make the field 

A solitude, and crowded mart a den 

Of thieves. — 

When the moist sickle rests upon its hook. 

And the rich stores of earth are gathered in. 

The fair is held — a feast of fruits and flowers — 

Of Art's fine workmanship and Labor's yield. 

From the dark pines that fringe Aristook's wave, 

To the wild chapparal that rudely turns 

The martial foot from Rio Bravo's bank, 

From the Atlantic's many-peopled shore 

To the Columbia's vales of living green, 

The joyful mandate rings, and man pours forth 

His richest treasures to the gaze of day. 

The nation sits in judgment on her arts. 

Her choice productions and her fruitful glebes. 

And cheers the laborer's toil with voice of praise. 

Thus man is dignified by honest toil, 

And the dread curse pronounced in Time's young spring 

Becomes a blessing in its autumn day. 



40 AUTUMN. 

So may the laborer stand amid his race — 

Taught that true knowledge elevates the soul, 

That the poor carpenter of Gallilee , 

Once worked His task — then in the temple taught — 

Then gave redemption to a guilty world — 

And then resumed His station by His God ! 

Now from the well-filled barn, in gusty day, 

The flail's loud beat is heard — a pleasing sound — 

And from the chaff the full unspotted grain 

Is winnowed by the stripling's feeble hand. 

And while the dust is flying far and wide 

The wheat is gathered in, a precious store, 

Tempting the factor's mercenary eye. 

And bidding famine with her sickly form 

Wander afar from Freedom's hallowed soil ; 

The timid quail, with weil-fledged brood, draws near, 

Her tithe to claim from man's productive toil. 

And barn-yard fowls their rich thanksgivings spend. 

Nor dream of days of want in times to come. 

When winter o'er the frozen earth shall claim 

His sovereignty with cutting blasts and snow. 

Autumn departs, and soon on hills of brown. 

In storms will break the dark solstitial morn. 

The grove has lost its verdure and its song. 

And withered leaves, in heaps, are mouldering round. 

Keen northern blasts, from Greenland's gelid wastes, 



AUTUMN. 41 

Wake the dark woods of storm-wrapt Labrador, 
And o'er Canadian wilds and ocean-lakes, 
Down Mississippi's vales in fury howl. 
By Huron's flood the savage wrapped in furs 
Gathers his tent of skins beneath the snow, 
And 'mid the smoke, for days, securely waits, 
For the encrusting rain to plate the drift 
With glittering ice, that cracks not at his tread, 
Where he may chase the moose, whose hoofs break thro' 
And leave upon the trail a track of blood. 
The miner on Superior's pictured cliffs. 
Where sings the thunder its eternal hymn. 
Waits in his cabin rude for hours of spring, 
Giving up pleasure, and e'en health itself, 
That he may climb to fortune's fickle height. 
Through veins of copper, and up shafts of gold. 
The pilgrim's son, in freedom, builds his cot. 
And hails a shadowy old world from the new, 
On the Pacific's main, where blooming hills 
Hang o'er the flood, and catch the dying strain 
Borne on the waves from India's coral strand. 
The farmer's boy, long since amid the woods. 
Has plucked the hazel and the chestnut brown, 
And sharp-ribbed walnut, for his winter store. 
Leaving the staining butternut untouched. 
For the hoar-frost to peel its ragged shell 
The sheep go wandering o'er the barren plains 
In search of welcome food, and where the scythe 
4* 



42 AUTUMN. 

Between the pointed stones has passed along, 

The sallow loiterers of the autumn field, 

Crop closer than the crooked blade of man. 

The red-breasts, gathered into flocks, no longer piptt 

Their sweetest songs beside the cottage door: 

And the vast family of sea-birds screech 

Their notes of sadness o'er the sounding sea. 

The rivers lift their voices, as the rain 

From chilly clouds falls on the dreary scene. 

And high above the banks in torrents swell. 

Sweeping the cottage and the well-filled barn, 

The dam, the bridge, and the old ivied mill. 

With stacks of grain and implements of man, 

In wild confusion onward to the sea. 

Sad are the notes of Nature — doubly sad, 

Where leaping o'er her brown and dizzy height. 

With robe of silver and a rainbow crown, 

Niagara sings her thunder-hymn to earth's 

Remotest waters — where oft the poet's eye 

Beholds, amid the shades of autumn eve. 

The Tuscarora in his phantom bark. 

Singing his death-song on the cataract's brow. 

Or where, amid Virginia's fertile vale, 

The Rock-bridge in its grandeur towers above 

The little stream that runs so far beneath. 

That human ear ne'er caught its hoarsest brawl. 

There where the Deluge pierced the mountain chain 

And sent its wild pent river to the sea. 



AUTUMN. 43 

The storm, with sternest music, calls its clouds, 
And through the giant arch remorseless sweeps, 
Causing dread whirlpools of the misty air. 

Autumn departs, and earth in sadness mourns, 
And all around is desolate and chill. 
Empires have had their autumns, and are lost 
Beneath the dead and rustling leaves of Time. 
Egypt, majestic in her ruin, sleeps 
Upon the Nile — the pyramids her history 
And her tomb. Idumea 'mid her cliffs, 
Yawns in her gloom, an empty sepulchre ; 
Tadmor is hid amid the desert sand ; 
Balbec's tremendous wall upon the waste, 
Shelters the spotted lizard and the owl ; 
And Babylon, the mighty, is a heap 
By the Euphrates. Tyre has been swallowed 
By the tideless sea ; Greece sits in darkness 
On her classic hills, 'mid templed groves — 
Her king a Saxon, and her children slaves. 
The Muscovite has found a shorter way 
To old Byzantium ; and the lazy Turk 
That loiters there, is but a Turk in name. 
Dark Ethiopia- knows her bounds no more ; 
Carthage is but a pasture wild for goats ; 
Persia now roams the waste in broken hordes ; 
Imperial Rome, once mistress of the world, 
Is but a province, where a mitred priest 



44 AUTUMN. 

Sits in the Caesar's chair without his crown, 
And the furr'd Russ directs the haughty race 
Of Ghengis Khan and fiery Tamerlane. 
Ages and kingdoms feel the sickle's click, 
And bend their heads before the reaper's tread. 
The Earth shall have her autumn, with the stars 
That sang in beauty at the birth of Time ; 
And Death shall have his autumn, for he too 
Must die. The heavens shall have their autumn, 
And be rolled back to their ancient nothingness ; 
And All shall fade, and fall around, and die, 
But God, and the vast Hierarchy of souls. 



Oh, Death ! when thou dost come with trembling limbs, 

Down the brown hills, where waves the ripened grain, 

To bear the aged exile home to God, 

While Autumn's wailing wind sings Harvest Home — 

When health's bright roses slowly fade away. 

As flowers of spring-time breathed on by the frost ; 

When dire consumption saps the roots of life. 

And slow but sure its victims steal along 

The shaded path that winds around the tomb ; 

Or when by burning fever racked and parched. 

The prostrate form with joy awaits thy call ; 

Or when forsaken by the loved and false. 

The broken spirit sits beside the grave. 

And weaves strange garlands from the withered flowers 

To crown the head-stone of departed hopes, 



AUTUMN. 45 

Thou art a welcome and an honored guest. 
But when in youth and heahh, without a sign, 
Thou comest in thy most appalling form, 
^wift as the sunbeam streaming from on high, 
Then thou dost rudely snap Hope's brightest buds, 
And form dread sepulchres in every heart — 
Chasms that never close with rolling years — 
Wounds that forever festering, never heal. 
Till deeper sorrows settle on the soul. 

Autumn departs, and with it ends the song 
Of the rude bard, who essayed first to sing 
In high scholastic verse, its scenes of gold ; 
A pleasant pastime for an idle month, 
When the hot sun pour'd down its sickly rays 
And pestilence at noonday walked abroad. 

Autumn departs, and on its cheerless gale. 

Sighing o'er barren moor and russet grove. 

The feeble lay goes forth, with deep distrust. 

And much of hope, entwined with more of fear ; 

If it shall fail — and stranger things have been, 

And with the leaves around, whirl through the vale. 

And up the forest's melancholy path, 

Lifeless and useless, as the withered band. 

'Tis an old truth, by bard of sweetness told, 

" Leaves have their time to fall, and stars to set." 

But if perchance some generous soul shall take 



46 AUTUMN. 

The half-fledged warbler to a pleasant home, 
Where bright-eyed children gather in their joy — 
Type of the host that throng the homes of Heaven- 
Glean from its varied notes one sound to please, 
One truth to charm and elevate the soul, 
And bid young genius in her wild-wood sing, 
The scenes and glories of her native land — 
Then shall the bard in his retreat rejoice, 
And sing again, when Spring, with sunny brow, 
Shall speak the resurrection of the flowers. 



WINTER 



WINTER: 



A POEM 



BY 



JESSE E. DOW. 



Here Winter holds hia unrejoicing court." — Thomso: 



WASHINGTON: 

PUBLISHED BY WILLIAM ADAM. 

1848. 



T. Barward, Printer, 
Washington, D. C. 



DEDICATION 



HON. JAMES DIXON, 

ONE OF THE 

Representatives of llie American People, 

AND A POET, 

THIS POEM IS RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED. 

— " 'Twas Ihinc the seasons of the North to >;ing. 

In sonnets Sflowing witli seraphic fire : 
But now thy harp is silent by the stream, 
And sylvan hill, where truant Childhood roam'd, 
Drinking in beauty from the cup of flowers." 

THE AUTHOR. 



M' 



"WINTER 



Now Winter steals around the dying year, 
With icy feet and panoply of Hail. 
The hills grow dark, and thro' the spotted groves 
The chilly night-wind sings with saddest strain, 
Bidding the house-wife pile her evening fire, 
While man forsakes the woodland's russet way. 
Where danced the red leaf in the chequered light, 
When nfiellow Autumn cast her glories 'round. 

Changed is the scene from that bright Eden hour, 
When at a thought the spirit marshal'd earth, 
Dressed in the green luxuriance of Spring, 
Left the bright portals of eternal day. 
And sailing down the blue empyrean, sang 
Her joyful song, the parting hymn of Heaven. 

The scanty twilight swiftly fades in gloom ; 
The frost's blue mantle rests upon the stream ; 
The distant hill draws near in evening's haze. 
And creaks the wheel upon the lonely road. 
With noiseless feet the gleaming warder spans 



54 WINTER. 

The swollen waters with a crystal arch ; 

And 'round the trav'ler's muffled face a web 

Of silver weaves, while on his raven steed, 

The white foam, sparkling from the bit, congeals. 

The wandering flocks a doubtful cover seek. 

Where tempting haystacks rear their yellow lees, 

And there they huddle still and chew the cud, 

Nor heed the anxious herd-boy's distant call. 

Though oft repeated on the sullen moor. 

The wild geese gabble in the misty air. 

As joyfully their tireless flight they wing 

To summer waters, where the tropic sun 

Looks from mid Heaven upon the upright mast, 

Nor casts a shadow on the deck at noon ; 

And when the death-shot suddenly arrests 

The gray wing'd voy'ger in his trackless course, 

The bold unfaltering pilot of the air, 

Closes the death-gap in his noisy ranks. 

And marshals on the harrow of the storm. 

From rocky hills and deep sequestered glens, 
The fox no longer sends his fretful bark; 
And from the deepest woods at dusky hour, 
Clapping their tingling hands, the choppers come 
With boisterous glee and song. The hamlet hearth. 
With hearty hickory piled that brighter burns 
When Winter whistles rudely at the door, 
Now sends its cheerful blaze far up the flue, 



WINTER. 55 

Making the snoring blood-liound change his lair ; 
While shrill and oft the Shepherd's clock proclaims 
The creeping shadows and his hour of rest. 
Around the moon, precursor of the storm, 
The silent halo marks its mystic ring, 
And fleecy clouds move slowly o'er the sky 
Like wandering flocks upon an upland lea ; 
While brighter glow the intervening stars 
From Hesper's orb to Verrier's distant world. 

From market-town, the thiifty farmer brings 
The golden product of a toiling year. 
And pure aflection bounds to meet his smile, 
While joy, unclouded, lights his cottage home. 
Now ruddy sirloins lift their knightly crests 
'Mid mealy mercers in their rusty coats. 
And groans the board by rustic plenty spread, 
While ponderous slices pass like leaves away — 
Red leaves that glide along a mountain stream 
When snows are melting in their airy dells. 
And forest cataracts sing their drinking songs. 
The rosy girls and manly striplings join, 
Nor daintly refuse the wholesome food ; 
E'en frosty age, with palsied hand, contrives 
To conquer Hunger in her toothless den. 
The weary trav'ler, sheltered from the blast, 
W^here the huge forestick bears its glowing load, 
Hears with delight, the farmer's manly hail 



56 WINTER. 

That bids him welcome to the ample feast. 

No ceremony needs the hungry man, 

But at the word, he turns with burning zeal, 

While like the widow's cruse, the savory rib 

Towers with his strength and conquers his desire ; 

And now the balmy cider, richly laced 

With scarlet peppers, foams around the board ; 

All drink in peace and all are warmed within ; 

Yet are they chilled when e'er the insatiate pack 

Of trooping wild winds howl along the moor. 

The feast is o'er, and gathering round the fire, 

A glowing circle of enchanting health. 

They seat themselves and turn as they grow warm ; 

While from his wand'ring 'mid the gloomy night, 

On the brown settle rests the weary man, 

A silent watcher, tho' himself unwatched. 

And there with merry laugh, the jest goes round. 

And cousins kiss as cousins ever will, 

While Innocence in blushes, sits secure 

Though half inclined to leave and half to love. 

The grandsire dozing in his antique chair, 
Beneath the Kevolution's battle sword, 
That on the Elk horn hangs a sacred thing, 
Starts from his dream and speaks of wintry war, — 
Of Arnold struggling 'mid Canadian wilds, 
Of Valley Forge and its cold solitudes. 



WINTER. 57 

Of midnight marches 'mid the blinding snows, 
When drowsy Princeton heard the icy drum's 
Wild beat along the frozen Delaware, — 
Of men upon their war steeds turned to stone, 
Each with a jeweled lance and snowy plume. 
Like Knights of Death, upon their vigils cold. 
In the whit€ porch of Runic Odin's hall ; 
While in the corner sits the wrinkled Dame, 
The kitten playing with her rolling ball, 
Knitting the weary thread of life away. 

Harmless and still the snow begins to fall 
Like the first shedding of the Autumn's leaf. 
Scarce felt upon the weary trav'ler's form. 
Slowly the forest pathway disappears, 
The garden stile, the wood pile, and the curb 
Where on its chain, the oaken bucket hangs, 
Remembered oft amid the desert wastes. 
By him who pressed in youth, its mossy lip. 
At length the storm, blinding and furious, sweeps, 
Shutting the vision in with glimmering pale. 
And fashioning the snow wreath as it lists. 
The hour of savage dreariness appears ;; 
The solemn pines shake off their snowy plumes. 
And beat the air like giants at their play ; 
While on the lost one's ear their murmurings fall 
Like the wild breaker's tempest-breathing hymn. 
The Winter's wind, how sad its rising moan. 



58 WINTER. 

O'er barren pasture and round lonely hilf, 

Now wailing 'mid the forest's creaking limbsy 

Where not a leaf the wrinkled bark conceals. 

And now around the northern corners bleak, 

Howling with gusty breath its strength away ; 

The farm house quakes as tho' a whirl-wind tim'd 

Its dreadful march. In his dark stable lows 

The affrighted ox, while elms majestic pay 

Their stately reverence to the tyrant blast. 

The windows in their casements rattle loud, 

And chimneys totter o'er the drifted roof; 

The night seems long and on the thresholds sleeps 

The yawning day. Thro' crack and crevice sifts. 

With rustling sound, the sparkling snow. 

Piling its tiny mountains 'round the room ; 

The well-sweep bows its weather beaten head 

And clanks its rusty chains with maniac glee. 

While sounds of terror haunt the upper rooms^ 

Or follow echo down the hollow glens. 

The silver-fingered frost is at his work. 

Nipping the green-house plants in bower and hall, 

And forming on the quilted counterpane 

Bright crystals from the unconscious sleeper's breath- 

Mysterious elf! yet at his noiseless step ; 

The clock grows silent and the goblet parts 

With merry click, while on the window pane 

Pictures of silver start to Childhood's gaze, 

So beautiful, that one from sleep aroused 



WINTER. 59 

Would fain believe life's pilgrimage had closed 
In Fairy Land : But ah ! soon undeceived, 
The whiffling snow shuts out the dawning light. 
And forms a barrier to the foot of man. 

The sheep upon the meadow sleep in drifts. 
The black cock crows amid the thickest pines. 
The rabbit gambols in his winter coat, 
And leaves his foot-prints on the virgin snow. 
Soon from the door the icy gate is borne, 
And to her task, the singing milk-maid goes ; 
Then glides the ponderous sled by oxen drawn, 
Filled with the stalwart lads and bright-eyed girls. 
Who tread King Whitehead 'neath their rustic feet, 
And laugh his fiercest attributes to scorn. 
And now the hardy schoolboy from the hills. 
While the bright sun looks on a dazzling world. 
Coasts on his sledge, unmanageably swift, 
Tripping the milk maid with her shining pail, 
And spilling o'er her the half frozen milk, 
While, in his lap, a startled, scolding thing. 
She rides, indignant, to the lowest vale. 

Now fly the snow balls with unerring aim, 
Where idle boys in mimic war engage, 
And oft advancing, oft repulsed, the hosts 
Seem fairly balanced, while " to conquer " sits 
Poised on a pellet, in an urchin's hand. 



60 WINTER. 

At length, 'tis done, the fatal ball is hurled, 

x\nd thro' the air it speeds with whizzing sound. 

Plumping the leader in his frosty eye, 

Who falls, and in an avalanche, rolls down 

The glittering breach to lead the charge no more. 

In full retreat, the headless army flies ; 

The panting craven, first to reach the fort, 

While red mouth'd urchins mount the captured heights'^ 

And shout in triumph o'er the bloodless fray. 

Soon the cold touch, ambition's fever chills, 

And with a bosom fill'd with powdered snow, 

The childish captive seeks his pleasant home. 

Blowing his hands, and crying with the cold. 

While the bold conquerors strut in martial pride ; 

Their battered beavers cock'd upon their brows^ 

Like the old guard on Jena's glorious day. 



Where Hudson murmurs 'mid her storied hills, 
Her Palisades and pinnacles of cold. 
The snow ball, shaken from the hunter's foot 
Upon the mountain, downward, gathering, rolls. 
Bounding from cliff to cliff, and gathering still, 
And still with increased swiftness, rushing on, 
'Till from the dizzy battlement it leaps 
With thunder-shout, a fearful avalanche, 
Parting the waters with its deaf 'ning roar, 
While Crow-nest echoes, and the welkin rings. 



WINTER. 6i 

Sweet flood of mountain scenery, memory clings 
Around thy fairy dells where bells the deer 
In merry spring-time, by his timid mate, 
Burying his cast off antlers 'neath the leaves 
And violets pale, and guarding from the touch 
Of insects' wing his budding head. And thy 
Tall peaks, bathed in the sunlight, or enrobed 
In storms — majestic dials of the noon, 
Casting the time-drawn shadows on thy flood, 
Leaving the sloop's white canvass half in light 
And half in shade — half past and half to come. 
And shedding o'er the " Poet's Nest," a ray 
Of golden light to cheer his deathless song. 
And they who look upon the castled Rhine, 
Or on the Ebro, turn again to thee. 
And hail thee, loveliest of Earth's lovely streams, 
Whether thou art a babbler of the Spring, 
Or bride of Winter in thy jewels dressed. 
Thy shores have echoed with the notes of war, 
When on the forest fell the brave Champlain ; 
Or when in later days in Freedom's hour, 
Up thy wild gorges and along thy hills, 
The old Provincial drums beat loud and clear, 
While Allen with his brave Green Mountain band, 
Leaped o'er Ticonderoga's dizzy walls. 
And in the midnight's still and solemn hour. 
Bade the proud host surrender to his God. 



62 WINTER. 

Wrapped in his furry robe, the Polar dwarf 
Drives his wild dogs along the Northern ring. 
Hears the black wolf o'er icy prairies, howl, 
And sees Aurora's crackling blaze unmoved. 
Far in the distance gleams his house of snow, 
Where his loved partner trims her burning lamp •, 
Watching the cradle pouch of glossy skin, 
That holds in slumbers sweet, the swart Pappoase, 
Laden with furs, the hunter's richest spoil, 
Torn from the Polar bear or oily seal. 
Where Artie seas thro' icy nostrils breathe, 
Homeward he wends his solitary way, 
Cheering his evening ride with songs of joy, 
While his swift coursers turn a listening ear. 

To him, stern Winter has unnumbered charms 

Of savage plenty and barbaric ease ; 

And by the iceberg's glittering shrine, he lifts 

His rude thanksgiving to his idol God, 

While the wierd sorcerer beats Devotion's drum. 



While Winter flaps his ensign's frosty fold 

O'er the last moments of the dying year. 

From Maine's dark forests down the Atlantic shore, 

To the Tortugas and the Floral reef, 

From hoarse Niagara's chain of ocean lakes. 

Where brawls St. Lawrence 'mid his thousand isles. 

From the great rivers of the shadowy west, 



WINTEI?. 63 

From Mississippi's vales and Brasso's plains, 
The chosen delegates of sovereign will, 
Clad in the purple of the masses, come 
To legislate and stay the hand of power. 

In the high places of the free, they sit 

Like the great council of the Ravens, held 

Contemporaneous, in the Dismal Swamp, 

Where Appomattox, on his bear skin, ruled 

When Old Virginia was an Indian maid. 

And there they legislate and clamor fierce, 

And talk of liberty and equal rights, 

And the old days of glory ; 

While from the centre to the Union's verge. 

Guided by passion, patronage or pride. 

Power ebbs and flows with a tremendous wave, 

O'er public welfare and domestic rights. 

Not so — when from the tyranny of Kings, 

The young Republic, like an eagle, burst, 

And screamed her song of triumph 'mid the stars. 

Then Sages sat in legislation's halls, 

And Patriots still'd the demagogue's wild cry ; 

Shewed him their scars, and pointed to the grave 

By the Potomac's broad and glassy flood. 

Where 'neath the laurel, slept the god-like-man 

Who knew no glory but his country's good — 

No country but the land his sword had won. 



64 WINTER. 

Crowned with the holly wreath, Old Christmas sits, 
And shakes his jolly sides and laughs aloud, 
While the wide fire-place, fill'd with crackling logs. 
Sends its warm ripple 'round the murky room. 
Then while the happy children gather 'round 
And sing his carols with unbounded glee, 
The aged mark his hale familiar form. 
And bid him welcome to the J^earth once more. 

His merry pastime o'er, with midnight's chime, 
Leaving behind, his gifts a precious store. 
Up the tall chimney, lo ! he takes his flight, 
^nd sings amid the storm, his "cradle hymn.'' 
The sick man on his tiresome couch, awakes 
And listen's to the soul enlivening sound. 
While the poor pris'ner in the dungeon's gloom. 
Clasps his cold fetters to his panting breast, 
And dares again to hope for mercy's smile. 
Down in the lonesome hovel 'mid the straw. 
The beggar, huddling with his starving child, 
Lifts up his head with momentary joy, 
And murmurs "Christmas" from a faltering tongue. 
Day dawns — the rich man leaves his purple couch — 
The prisoner, freed by death, no longer weeps, 
And the wan beggar, with his famished child, 
Sings like the sky lark, at the gate of Heaven. 



Chanting around the frozen lake, behold 



WINTER. 65 

The happy converts in their robes of white, 
Led by the Church in all her righteousness. 
And now, where crystal waters gently run. 
The zealous axe, a giant fountain cleaves, 
Where, 'mid the prayers and anthems of the good, 
The guilty plunge, and wash their sins away. 

Oh ! it is sweet to hear the holy song 
in triumph break upon the frosty ear, 
From river's brink or forest's leafless way. 
When 'mid her Sabbath, meek Religion walks 
The path of duty, leaning on her Lord. 



The Old Year sleeps in his white sepulchre, 
While Time, renewed, goes forth in search of flowers, 
Strong in his morning march, and blest with Hope — 
Length' ning the days and hastening on the Spring. 



Cold fell the midnight rain, and far and wide 
The sleet, a crystal panoply has cast ; 
While on the pine trees' giant branches, hang 
The mammoth icicles in dazzling rows — 
The jeweled fringe of Winter's gorgeous robe. 
The earth's pale bosom bears a glassy sheet, 
On which the moor-fowl strives to run in vain — 
And man no longer walks in pride, erect. 
Fences and walls are hidden 'neath the glaze, 
And sleighs, whh merry bells, above them glide. 
6* 



66 WINTER. 

The panting horses shod with corks of steel. 

And now the forest lifts its icy head, 

Each tree a diamond, glittering in the sun ; 

While in the jeweled aisles, bright shadows fall 

Like sunlight streaming thro' an oriel pane. 

The wind in fitful murmurs, lifts its voice, 

And from the waving woods, the shattered ice 

Falls heavily, while many a towering limb, 

Wrenched from its hoary trunk, comes toppling down, 

With thunder crash, and far and wide, is heard 

The tinkling atoms as they dance away. 

Enchanting scene ! too beautiful for earth — 

Brighter than Persian dreamer e'er beheld 

In fancy's magic hour, when Genii wrought 

In the magnificence of Fairy Land. 

Enjoy the hour, ye lovers of the morn. 

Whose feet delight to brush the midnight's tears. 

For soon the sun shall break the magic spell, 

And like the loveliest of the sparkling train [comes, 

That danced the Pale Queen down. — When noon-tide 

The sombre grove shall hang its drooping head- 



The night is still — the moon in beauty sails 

Up the cold sea of Heaven, and on the hills 

Of snow, looks down with more efiulgent beam. 

The air is teeming with the sparkling frost. 

And not a breeze is felt on hill or plain ; 

While the cold streams are soundless in the woods. 



WINTER. 67 

Now crowd the merry dancers of the North, 
The graceful sleighs, from ozier basket slight, " 
That glides along upon its sapling shoes, 
To the Great Western with its cushioned seats, 
Its pictured wings and richly blazoned beak. 
There, underneath the brown and furry robes. 
With glowing bricks in sheets of flannel roU'd, 
The living load is snugly stowed away ; 
While nought but sparkling eyes and noses red. 
Meet the rude frost, and own his subtle power. 

Hung round with bells that tinkle at the touch, 
The horses stamp, impatient to be off. 
While the strong driver, in his coat of fur. 
With a red comfort wound around his chin, 
Receives the reins, and cherrups in his glee. 

Off at the signal, dash the happy train, 
The snow balls flying from the horses heels, 
Pelting the gay ones as they glide along. 
While the sweet bells, in wintry music clear, 
And merry voices on the evening sound, 
Mingled with boisterous mirth and growing love. 
Swiftly the joyous company pass on. 
O'er hill and dale and thro' the forest shade, 
Cheering the light that twinkles down the glen, 
And shuddering as they pass the haunted house 
Where mortal foot ne'er treads, nor cricket sings. 



68 WINTER. 

The farmer startles at the joyous route — 
Sees the glad train sweep by, and hears the sound 
Of their sweet tones in distance, melt away. 
The lass, neglected by her homespun beau, 
Careless of duty, in the corner mopes ; 
While the wild lad, unworthy deemed to drive 
The Deacon's mare, sits sullen, by her side. 
Making strange figures on the ample hearth, 
And plotting vengeance for all time to come. 

Afar, to some bright village, lo, they speed, 
Where, by the sign-post stands the jovial Inn — 
And there the youthful dance to thrilling tunes 
From the blind beggar's pleading violin. 
Whose cheering notes have echo'd 'round the world. 
While the more serious drink the balmy flip, 
And find substantial pleasures in the feast. 

At length the spirit tires, and now for home — 
The horses prancing, to the door they bring ; 
The bill is paid, the foaming flagon drained, 
And the bright mass of life is bundled in. 
Then, like wild Jehus, lo, the steadiest drive, 
While many a load is pitched beneath the snow — 
Matrons and maids, and rude uproarious boys, 
'Mid laughs and jeers, and many a drabbled dress 
That scraped the snow-drift as it upward flew. 

In the dim morn the last wild rider stalls 



WINTER. 69 



His panting steeds, and slovenly all day, 
The joy-worn maidens do their lotted tasks- 
The thrifty matrons scolding at their heels. 



Gliding along the sled's hard polished track. 
The schoolboy, with his satchel, seeks the door 
Where learning, placed upon her lowly form, 
Sways in her seat and cons the pictured page. 
Here sits the judge, and there the culprit pale. 
And there the warrior thumbs his blotted book ; 
Yonder the infant sculptor carves the bench, 
While on his slate, the painter rudely draws. 
Here pleading voices, shew the advocates, 
And solemn nasal twang, the learned divine ; 
There physic shakes his ever doubting head. 
And the young admiral coils his little rope ; 
The merry Andrew, swings upon the door, 
The actress struts, in tragic humor dressed, 
The modest woman peers from little ways, 
And the bold vixen, looks her infant part ; 
High over all, the teacher sits in state ; 
His quick eye glancing round the well filled room. 
Marking the half munched apple, half concealed 
By the young rogue who watches him the while, 
Noting the secret laugh or whisper rude ; 
The top, from well stuffed pocket, peering out, 
Or snow ball, melting in the aching hand ; 
Listening to trifles with a look profound,' 
Soothing the weak, and feruling the strong, 



10 WINTER. 

Correcting, teaching, training heart and hand, 

And from the highest, claiming reverence due. 

The Schoolmaster ! who envies him his lot — 

Secluded from mankind — the school his world. 

Yet who would bid him leave his lofty sphere, 

While education rules the thinking mass. 

The coming age is his, and he prepares 

The youthful spirit for its eagle flight. 

When fails its half-fledged wing, and from the sun, 

Its bright eye turns, afraid to drink its beams. 

He gives to wavering virtue, strength and form, 

Turns murder's blood -shot eye, to paths of love, 

Tames wild ambition in his mad career. 

And breaks the mind's young colt, with master bit. 

The Winter's school — oh, who can tell the power 

Its days exert upon the busy world ; 

What deeds of glory from its influence spring. 

When manhood marches down the hill of Time ! 



From the lone cabin in the western wild 

That looks thro' leafless woods on barren wastes. 

And sees no counterpart in joy or grief — 

The emigrant's last refuge and his home — 

To the proud capitol where mammon rears 

Her shrine of heartless elegance and ease — ■ 

Mother of Freedom ! thou art still the same. 

The jewel of a proud and templed land, 

a\round whose sparkling soul, love's clusters cling. 



WliNTER. "71 

iShining the brighter in the hour of gloom ; 

Yet thou dost love the shores beyond the sea, 

The moustached ape, that teaches thee to dance. 

Or sing with bursting throat, Italia's airs, 

The songs of Tyrol, and the purple Rhine, 

Old Scottish lays and Normandy's rude glees. 

But seldom from thy silver voice, doth float 

The strains thy country's genius tunes for thee. 

Sweeter than Switzer's chant in Alpine glen, 

Or Tasso's song in Arqua's mossy vale. 

Yet, 'round the village altar, where in love, 

The pure in heart their priceless offerings bring, 

The rosy belle leads off the rustic choir, 

In Holden's chant or Billings' song of praise. 

Soon the bass leader, with his giant hand. 

Where manly toil has set its hallowed seal, 

Beats common time, and in the spirit sings ; 

And then the loitering parts come tripping on, 

'Till sweet-toned voices bursting every bound. 

Swell the wild strain and drown the quaint bassoon. 

Up to the singers, roll a sea of eyes — 

Some dim with age, and some with tears suffused, 

And smirking mothers toss their heads in pride, 

As high above the highest, sweetly soar 

Their daughter's voices, wonderful to hear; 

While the aged Deacon 'neath the pulpit stairs, 

Wrapt in a vision of estatic bliss, 

Sings sweetly on when all the rest have done. 



72 WINTER. 

O'er the iced waters when the day grows dim, 
Thrilling with life, the merry skaters glide; 
Now swiftly coursing in the far off cove, 
Drawing the sledge with rustic beauties filPd, 
While others 'round them, like a body guard, 
Wave the wild torches of the birchen bark, 
Or knots of pine that crackle as they burn. 
And send the blazing pitch in shadows 'round. 

Now swifter gliding by the lonely place 
Where glaring eye balls startle 'mid the shade, 
And now retreating from the bending ice 
That marks the outlet where the waters breathe ; 
Now like the warriors of the frozen North, 
Brandishing mimic weapons in the air, 
And now evanishing in deeper gloom. 
Bearing away the captives and their spoils. 

Graceful as young Apollos, lo ! they move, 
While 'round the burnished steel beneath their feet, 
The sparks of fire roll out and in their path. 
The skate's curved furrow, like the diamond's trace 
On the smooth glass, arrests the follower's eye. 
Far in the hours of sleep, the frolic lasts, 
And all by turns, the blooming burden bear. 
While those less skillful, glide along the shore, 
And hold sweet converse by the blazing pine. 
And oft some tyro, in presumption, bold. 



WINTER. 73 

Mounts the bright blades to see what he can do, 

And after plunging madly in the crowd, 

Falls on his blockhead crown 'mid laughs and jeers, 

Learning, when on the icy mirror sprawled, 

How hard it is with ignorance to move 

In life's dread crbit, or in boyish play. 

Mirth rules the hour, and Friendship twines her cord 
Still closer 'round the tender heart of youth. 
The old and young the passing joke enjoy. 
And Health with rosy lip, stands by to crown 
The swaddled boy, who leaves the heated room, 
To beat with sturdy limbs, the bracing air. 

Along the plains the jovial echoes spread. 
While passing trav'lers stop, the sounds to hear, 
And sigh to think their boyhood's days are o'er — 
Days filled with innocence and crowned with peace. 



And now the princely merchants of the North, 
Cut from the lake's cold breast, the crystal blocks, 
And send them glittering, on their snowy wings, 
To cool the lip of India's sallow lord. 
The fierce Malay or silken Mandarin, 
The Creole on the Mississippi's banks, 
Or Spaniard, in the Garden Isle of God, 
Where the dark Moro lifts its bastions tall, 
And frowns defiance to a floating world. 
7 



74 



WINTER. 



And Indostan, and Persia, and the shores 
Of Mozambique and Zanzibar — the isles 
That slumber in the coral's glowing arms, 
'Neath tulip trees and palms that never fade- 
Dark Nubia's waste and dreamy Barbary, 
Are blest with wintry souvenirs, from shores 
Where Freedom in her icy cradle, watched 
The kindling glories of the Western Star. 



A sail upon the Ocean wilderness— 

A gallant bark upon the stormy deep. 

Lo, at the helm a treacherous pilot stands, 

Seeking a haven on the darkest lee. 

Where tempests howl the saddest thro' the pines. 

And waves leap wildest in their mad career ; 

Now sweeping by the far-off western isles. 

Whose dizzy craters slumber in the sky : 

And now retreating with expiring day 

From the hoarse wave that breaks on Labrador. 

Days, weeks, and months in agony are past, 
And hope hangs trembling o'er the yawning deep. 
Death claims his tribute too from that pale band, 
And Heaven receives the sheaves its gleaner brings ;. 
While by the dauntless warrior kneels in prayer 
The Saxon mother and her fair hair'd boy — 
Grey knighthood's hope and Innocence' sweet bud. 
Land ho ! the look out man doth sweetly sing. 



WINTER. 

High in the midnight air and by the cot, 

Where woman cheers when sterner manhood pales, 

The joyful sound in gentle echo floats. 

Land ho ! and by the savage's dying fire 
The ark of Freedom anchors in the bay. 

Time honored land ! where Puritanic faith. 
Seeking a refuge in a night of gloom, 
Rear'd her rude altar by the eagle's nest, 
And leaning on the arm of Mercy, roamed 
The desolation, trusting in her God. 
Pure as the handful of the olden flood, 
Beneath the thunder-rocking pines they sang 
The plaintive hymns of childhood's fairer home. 
And laid the deep foundations of the State. 

Oh, it was wonderful in that stern hour. 
While the dark waters hailed the answering woods, 
To hear them sing with voices tuned in love, 
Southampton's chant and Leyden's sweeter song. 

Time on the grave of centuries has trod. 
Since closed that winter's day of doubt and gloom, 
And millions have gone out from them with joy. 
To hear the wave on Sacramento's bar, 
Chaunt dread responses to Columbia's roar. 
And now as in the winter's night, I stand. 



76 



WINTEH. 



On the white shore where sleep the pilgrim dead. 
And look upon the ocean black with storms, 
1 see the tempest-driven bark rush on, 
Filled with the exiles from a land of thrones, 
To find a refuge where the Mayflower lay. 

Poised high above the sea-horse's frozen corse. 

The Arctic raven screams her song of death. 

While echo from the glittering peaks of cold, 

Comes like an answer from a realm of sleep. 

Sad was the fate of him, adventurous one, 

Who lured by science or the love of gain. 

Spread his rent sail to catch the frosty breeze, 

Where the still lightning danced around the pole. 

O'er his lone bark the silent frost king breathed ; 

Cased shroud, and spar, and blackened hulk, in mail 

And gave him captive, to the wizard charge 

Of the grim warder of the frozen North. 

For him, the lov'd ones in a sunnier clime. 

Have watched at morning's dawn and evening's husi 

And oft the fading wife has heard his step 

Come sounding up the solitary lane, 

And ran to meet him with her little ones ; 

Alas I no father came, that home to cheer. 

Nor shall the iceberg loose him from its grasp, 

'Till the last trumpet rings along the wave. 

And topples down the pinnacles of cold. 

While Winter howls around their blotted hearths. 



WINTER. 77 

And whirls the snow-drifl o'er their nameless graves, 
Nations forgotten, in our forests sleep — 
Old denizens of a luxuriant earth. 
Who rode the dark mastodon down to drink, 
And ploughed the prairies with the river ox : 
Giants! who lived in patriarchal woods. 
Where the great vulture made her bloody nest, 
And fed her young ones with the elk, whose bones 
Sleep in the limestone of the Mammoth Cave : 
And there are those who passed the frozen strait 
Of Bhering — or in junks of China, came 
O'er the Pacific, to Francisco's Bay. 
Norsemen ! who with the red haired Eric sailed 
To Markland, Vinland, and the blooming shores 
Of Massachusetts, leaving their foot-prints 
On the sandstone ledge, and mystic writing 
On the Dighton Rock. And those old mariners 
Who, from the fair Atlantis' sunken isle, 
Sail'd westward ere Columbus boldly steered 
For the New World his prophet vision saw. 
And they are gone, and by the Atlantic's shore, 
And the Cordilleras' vales, and on the Gulf 
Where the half savage fells the logwood grove, 
Their giant piles in mossy silence sleep. 

Columbia ! there was one who loved to tread 
Thy rugged paths in his young pilgrimage,* 

* Wilson. 



78 WINTER. 

Far from the Bonny Doon and silver Ayr ; 

Now camping with the moose amid the snows, 

Where tall Kathadin lifts her frosty head, 

And hears Penobscot's tributaries roar — 

And now in silken hammock swinging free, 

Where the magnolia lifts her crown of flowers, 

And scents the wave that breaks on Tampa's shore. 

His was no warrior's march o'er fields of blood, 

No midnight onslaught or sly ambuscade, 

Leaving the morn to tell its tale of woe, 

And man to mourn the mischief man had done. 

But yet in perils oft, he paced the wild, 

When fell the dying tree, or howled the storm, 

While at his feet, the snake with crooked fang, 

In poison hissed ; and 'round his hunters' fire, 

With glaring eye balls, prowled the panther fierce. 

Day after day within the lonely glen. 

Or noxious swamp, where sallow fevers breed, 

Hungry and weary, with his rifle true. 

He watched for nature with a Poet's zeal. 

Filling his pouch with people of the air, 

And gathering up the wisdom of the woods. 



Within her curtained room, now Fashion sits 
On the soft cushion of luxurious ease. 
Robed in the furs from Scandinavia's waste. 
With silks from Indus and from Sarmacand — 
Bright ribbons from the Arno's classic vales, 



WINTER. 79 

And velvets from Genoa's stately looms. 

Around her neck of alabaster hue, 

Where dallies oft, the summer's golden breeze, 

Twine the rich shawls of Shiras or Lahore, 

With downy tippets from the Eider's wing, 

That circled oft, Alaska's crimson snows. 

Or scaled the ice-crag of the Orcades. 

There diamonds glitter with the lustrous pearl, 

Brought by the bleeding diver from the bed 

Of Pernambuco : And o'er locks of jet, 

Wave the white plumes the desert ostrich wore. 

Beneath the satin shoe in beauty spreads. 

The fiowery carpet in the Harem wrought 

By jeweled hands of Abyssinia's slaves, 

Or fairer daughters of Circassian vales ; 

And 'round the room wdth dreamy pictures hung, 

In amber light the sweetest odors float, 

Like perfumed clouds that sail at evening o'er 

Seraglio's Point and up the Golden Horn. 

Yes, there she sits upon her giddy throne 
Mistress of power and warder of the soul ! 
Before whose potent spell stern Virtue falls. 
And meek Religion strives and strives in vain. 
There Valor comes to worship, and the wise 
Who wear the spotted Ermine, or the lawn, 
And there the student, from his musty lore, 
Leads thro' the courtly dance without a thrill, 



80 WINTER. 

The blooming maiden, or the prude of years, 
Selfish alike, and as the Ice-berg cold, 
And worthless as the sea-weed on the shore. 
Oh, hollow-hearted mockery, for thee — 
Earth has no happy home, and Heaven no joy. 

Along Superior's vast and glittering shores 

On his broad snow shoes stalks the hardy post, 

While o'er his head the solitary bird, 

That knows no friendship and that fears no foe, 

Sails in his eagle strength and screams for joy. 

Noon comes, but still he halts not in his march ; 

Now walking on the glacier's dizzy verge 

Where headlong plunge the deer in dangers hour 

To find eternal quiet at the base ; 

And now retreating from the sinking drift 

That o'er a chasm terrible has thrown 

A fleecy bridge to tempt his cautious feet, 

While down the dark abyss the snowy arch 

In thunder falls and crumbles in its gloom. 

The day is fast descending, and his feet 

Have weary grown, and 'round his heart the wave 

Of life that beat exultingly at morn 

Is cold and sluggish as the iceberg's surge. 

For him no hamlet smiles beneath the hill. 

No cheerful inn upon the boundless plain 

Curls its blue smoke to lure him to its hearth, 

But all around is desolate and cold. 



WINTEK. 81 

His chance of rest the wandering Red man's lodge — 
His food the pounded flesh of mountain deer 
Pack'd in the Bison's polished horn — his drink 
Pure water from the lake where broke the Elk 
Its icy barrier, when he quenched his thirst ; 
His trembling hope, a vague desire to sleep — 
Sleep that when once indulged shall never break 
Till the last Winter melts in endless spring. 

Musing he stands upon the pictured cliffs, 
Whose fancied turrets feed the thunder cloud 
When spectre miners raise their fires below, 
And casts his eyes along the icy sheet, 
Whose fabled shores repeat the spirit song 
The Red man sings in his green hunting heaven. 
Oh ! this is solitude, that pains the heart, 
And makes the wanderer sigh for cities vast, 
Where human voices harsh, if not unkind, 
Break on the ear and satisfy the soul. 
But lo ! a raven wings her rapid flight, 
Seeking a rest in dark Wiskonsin's pines, 
And screaming hoarsely to her lagging mates ; 
He notes the sound oft heard around his home, 
And starts from his cold re^ erie with joy. 
So Fremont felt when, on the cloud-capt peak, 
The last of the Cordilleras' glittering chain. 
He looked on Mississippi's distant vale. 
And on the green savannahs of the West, 



82 WINTER. 

And heard around his head, the humble bee, 

Lone messenger from civilization's home. 

Singing the song she sang, above the flowers. 

Onward he moves, and lo ! beneath the cliff. 

An Indian wigwam meets his anxious eye ; 

He hears the laughter of the savage boys — 

The watch dog's bark and hunter's cheerful whoop, 

As home he bears his heavy anllered spoil ; 

Then fades away the sadness of the past. 

For pain departed, seems to one relieved, 

A little thing, and easy to be borne ; 

And on the chieftain's couch of furs reclined, 

He dreams of sunnier skies and happier days. 



Out on its lonely way the iceberg sweeps. 
Its dizzy summit trembling in the air ; 
While in its clefts, the wing-wear'd sea-bird rests, 
And breaks the awful solitude with screams. 
Onward it parts the wave in calm and storm ; 
Its pinnacles in rainbow glories bathed, 
While on its dazzling walls, the scowling wave 
Breaks its proud crest, and thunders 'mid its foam. 
Pale isle of terror to the seamen's eye. 
When seen at evening in the misty air — 
Shunned by the gallant bark that loves the storm, 
And rides in triumph by a rocky lee. 

Melting away and mingling with the deep, 



WINTER. 83 

Ship of the ice-king, launched by unseen hands, 
Where part the mountains with terrific sound, 
By Baffin's Isle or Greenland's dismal shore, — 
Whose banner is the tempest's scattered pine, 
Whose home is ocean and whose builder God- 
Sail on in lonely grandeur wild and free, 
And find at last thy destiny a wave, 
Thy strength a bubble and thy glory foam. 



Where the moose bellows o'er the frozen tide 

And from the fallen tree the brown bear rolls 

A torpid ball, the hardy lumber men 

Who beard old Winter in his icy lair 

By Millinoket and the Eagle lake, 

Fell the tall masts and launch them in the vales, 

Making the woods and wild morasses ring, 

With crashing blows and Labor's cheerful song. 

And there when Winter breaks his glittering ciiain, 

And melts the snow wreath on the sunny hill. 

Wild swell the dark ravines with deafening roar, 

Hurling the rafts, the woodman's treasure, down 

Penobscot fierce, and noisy Kennebec, 

Whose sylvan floods receive them with a shout. 

And bear them on in triumph to the sea. 

Where ponderous mill wheels dash the fretted waves, 

And tireless saws perform their giant tasks. 

Then joyful Bangor lifts her head and shouts 

To Damariscotta and her hundred mills 



84 WINTER. 

While far away the wings of commerce beai 
The winter harvest of the mountain pine. 



Season of crackling nuts and pippins pale, 

Of frosted cider and wild popping corn, 

Of cheerful hearths with glowing embers piled, 

Of honest labor in his blessed home. 

Now mirthful maidens turn the diamond quilt, 

The standard covering of the nuptial couch. 

On which for weeks the busy hand has toiled, 

While bashful lovers sitting by the fire, 

Pass the good tell in whispers round the ring, 

Or melt the frosty ear with mellow tale. 

The labor done the merry route begins 

With ' hunt the thimble,' or ' rude blind man's buff,'- 

Old fashioned games contrived in good old limes 

That old and young might share the rapturous hour. 

And grey haired Wisdom be a child again. 

Soon the old mansion to its centre shakes, 

While maidens coy resist their bolder swains, 

Who strive to steal ripe kisses in the dark. 

And in their struggle find superior joys. 

Oh ! Winter, tho' thou bearest on thy brow 

The tempest scar and icy touch of death. 

Still do I love thee, for beyond thee hope 

A brighter world presents to reason's eye. 

Where the Archangel sings his morning song 

The heavenly skylark at the gate of day. 



WINTER. 85 

The hand of Winter to the door latch clings, 

As o'er the threshold of the day he strides, 

An old man followed by a whimpering hound ; 

The peeping red-bud from the snow bank cheers 

His frosty eye, while o'er his vision pale 

The morning's splendor flashes like the light 

Of Hecla thrown on Iceland's peaks of cold. 

Through forests bare he moves with silent tread, 

Marking the squirrel's nest upon the tree, 

Or scarlet Oriole's solitary pouch, 

Hanging deserted on the maple's bough ; 

Now stopping where with net of curious make 

The truant snares the parti idge of the South, 

Who on the upland field shall call no more 

' Bob White ! Bob White !' in tones of melting love ; 

Or where the hunter on his panting steed, 

Chases the red fox down the snowy hills, 

x\nd winds his crooked horn with wild hallo ; 

Or when the evening comes with dying breeze 

Slays in the dusky woods the sly racoon. 

And drags the opossum from his leafy cave; 

Health-giving sport, tho' cruel to the mind 

Of one attuned to universal love. 

Worthy the painted savages' ruder taste, 

W^hen warriors slumber by the council fire, 

And pass unharmed the Emigrant's lone train, 

Through the still vistas of the forest land. 

Pensive he goes with slow and cautious step, 

His threadbare mantle clinging to his form, 



86 WINTER. 

Turning aside from his grey pilgrimage, 

To view the icebank in the sunless' vale, 

And stopping oft with tearful eye to gaze 

On southern slopes where spots of green appear ; 

Now listening to the distant prairie's moan 

Where 'mid the snow around, the Bison bull 

The throttling wolves sit watching red with gore, 

And now beholding Nature's famishM tribes 

On Kanzas' plains and new Helvatia's hills 

Eating their furry robes in wild despair, 

Or gathering 'round their fathers' graves to die. 

Before his tread the grizzly bear retreats 

To distant wilds, where f:incy scarce can send 

Her winged thought to cheer the Exile's home, 

And on his daring head the mountain sheep 

Rattles with pond'rous horns the snow drift down. 

While drowsy twilight folds her dusky wing, 
And voiceless lightnings dart along the sky, 
The hoary pilgrim seeks the icy pole. 
His step more feeble as he nears his home ; 
At length he totters down the northern hill 
And in the whiffling snow is lost from view. 
'Tis midnight, and the arctic maiden hears 
His last shrill whistle on the icy cliff. 
While in the distance dies his hounds' wild bark, 
No more to chill the soul till blushing spring, 
And smiling Summer with her purple crown 
Makes way for Autumn, and her reaper's song, 



WINTER. 87 

Her sheaf of gold, and death smiles on \he hills. 

Id the deep forest dies the winter hymn ; 

The warm rain comes at evening from the south; 

The roads break up beneath the heavy wheels ; 

The snow drifts melting fill the rivulet's banks, 

The rivulets the streams, the streams the floods — 

And from the mountains and the lofty hills 

The floods, red frothing, mingled earth and snow, 

Pile up the stately rivers, till their tides 

Their crystal barriers break, and thunder on 

In one wild tumult to the insatiate sea. 

Mills leave their ancient seats and sink in foam; 

The massive bridges on the icebergs float; 

While trees uprooted strew the noisy shores, 

Mingled with blacken'd nuts and withered leaves, 

Tracing for after years the freshet's march. 

Morn comes with golden eye, to view the scene; 

The forests ring, the precipices shout. 

The waterfalls lift up their voices loud. 

The cataracts in solemn grandeur roar — 

Rocks, fields and dells rejoice, and soon the earth 

Kends her cold shroud, and at the signal feels 

The seeds within her quicken into life. 

Now peeps the blue-eyed violet from the vale, 

And hails the daisy on the mountain side ; 

While the gay blue bird whistling in the glen 

Proclaims to man and beast with throat of joy 

The resurrection of the blooming flowers. 



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